The Slap of Love
by mouthinside
Summary: Snapshots of Elliot and Olivia's relationship, told over the course of three years/rated for language, content, and dark themes.
1. You're the Energy

**_A/N:_** _This is my first fic ever, so please feel free to leave feedback! I mostly just got tired of waiting for my favorite angsty svu fic (Those Graces by lucyspenser) to update so I decided to write my own... We'll see how it goes. Characters are property of NBC/Dick Wolf. Thanks for reading!_

 _October 2017_

You're surprised that anyone is still awake in the apartment. But you hear footsteps coming towards the kitchen, where you're pouring yourself a late night glass of wine. All of the sudden he's there, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pressing his face into your neck.

"Hi." You say with a sigh, leaning into him a little more.

"Thought I'd never see you again."

"Yeah, well. Caught a rough case. Really rough case."

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine."

You were trying to get better at that, at saying you would be fine. It was better than lying, than putting on that mask of quiet understanding that you liked to hide behind. You still had trouble when it came to exactly phrasing your woes and concerns, but gone were the days of your silent scream of an internal monologue - _STOP ASKING ME HOW I AM, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO ANSWER._

He kisses the temple of your head, pawing at your hips. You couldn't be less in the mood, but you also know for all the stress your body takes, that's more pent up sexual frustration on his part. _I had to wait so long to just touch you, I'm sure you understand it being hard to resist._ You did, and there were days that you wished you could merge into one being with him and never think about being by yourself again. His desires came from a place of love, but you needed time, and space, and a fucking shower.

"Babe," You mumble against him. "I'm really tired, I…"

"Shhh, yeah, I know. Just missed you." He gives you one last kiss and then heads back towards the bedroom. You notice your face moving into a dopey smile, almost subconsciously, as you watch him peek into Noah's room before he turns the corner, closing the door slowly so that it doesn't make a sound. He's grown gentler with age (and medication), and it's something you never saw coming. You loved him more than when he used to toss his fists into walls and eye sockets, if that was even possible.

You crawl into bed after another glass of wine and a shower, and your eyes have started stinging so badly that you can't read the digital clock by the nightstand. His arms automatically wrap around you, an instinct learned almost immediately after you two started seeing each other again. He doesn't live with you, still, because you think it's too much and you don't want to mess up the progress you both have made over the last few years by moving too quickly. But it's nice to have him over a few nights a week, even if it's always at your place and he sometimes stays for three or four days in a row.

As he pulls you into him, your mind wanders back to the beginning of the week, when you'd had a frustrating day at work, and the residual stress from Sheila showing up at your door was still getting to you, and your mind had been racing for a while. You were wound up to say the least, and he could tell. He'd absorbed all the tension that you were carrying, until you came home to him standing in the kitchen, fiddling around on his phone.

" _What are you doing?"_

" _Waitin' for you."_

 _That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours and all of the sudden he had you face down on the couch, with your hands pinned behind your back as he fucked into you over and over. He was straddling your legs so they were close together and, despite any discomfort, it felt like such a release to let someone take over for a few minutes while you regained your composure._

" _I'm gonna come inside of you, ok? I'm not pulling out."_

" _God, I - yeah. Yeah."_

 _You felt him stagger against your back, gripping your wrists a little tighter. It wasn't long after that he flipped you over, his face in your cunt because he knew that you weren't going to come from that alone, and he was all about equitable partner distribution of orgasms. You feel pressure building and then it's a release, the headache you'd had for weeks vanishing, your neck and back setting into their natural positions. There wasn't a knot in your body at this point, and your so satiated and shocked and turned on that you don't notice he's moving back up towards you, his hands moving lower, and lower…_

 _He widens your knee back out and reenters you, and you think that it can't get much more intense than this. Was this how people your age normally had sex? You felt like you were seventeen and horny again, like everything was new. You're sitting against the couch now, so you can move your legs, which automatically widen once he's buried all the way inside of you. He still puts your hands above your head so that you can't stop him from going as hard as he wants. It works out this way, and it always will. He knows that this is all you want, that if it were up to you, you'd never have gentle, generous, loving sex again. It would be hard and fast and it would hurt - that was what made you like it so much._

" _Do you like it when I do that, huh? You like feelin' me all the way up inside you like that?"_

" _I, yeah, I love yo- I, thank you."_

 _You're stammering and babbling on when you come again, which is too much of a shock for your body to process and you're quivering below him as he finishes inside of your for the second time in a night. When he pulls out, he's watching you carefully. You both fall against each other on your couch, and he has both arms wrapped around you, his skin warm as you shudder._

" _How was that? What the doctor ordered?"_

" _Yeah." You look up at him, squinting, then give him a peck on the lips. "Thanks."_

He stirs against you now, feeling you shiver because it's a little drafty in your room and you can still feel him inside of you, feeding into your sadistic needs. There's a lot he won't do - you've either already asked or tried to convince him over the course of a night, with the ultimate result always disappointing on your end. But at the end of the night, it's feeling him wrapped around you, feeling safe from everyone else, that counts.

He kisses the back of your neck, and the sensation of his lips on your skin makes your body buzz. He sighs a little and mumbles a goodnight, burying his face in your neck like he always does.

"Night, El."

His tiny snores start not long after you speak, and your lulled to sleep by his easy rhythm. If only it could always be this simple.


	2. Crossroads

**_A/N: Okay, so here's the deal. This story has 3 timelines: late 2016-present time (think post-Tucker), post 2014 Beast's Obsession, and during/right after the Lewis trial with some references to past events. Heed warnings that this story will have dark themes (assault, attempted rape, rough sex, etc.). This chapter takes place right after "Post-Mortem Blues". I'll specify timelines in future chapters. I also don't know how long of a story this is going to be, but I'm going for a kind of sprawled out, extensive narrative here._**

 ** _Please enjoy, and leave a review if you're so compelled._**

 _May 2014_

You're buying yourself shaving cream, aspirin, and a bottle of orange juice when you see him passing on the street. You've had a head cold for the last few days, so it takes you a minute to realize it's him, and your legs wait until you're done checking out to power after him. The pressure sits on your lungs because you haven't been moving much lately. You catch his arm while he's waiting to cross the street.

"El, hey."

He turns around and faces you in shock. "Fuck, Liv?"

You smile at him, gently. Because after everything you've been through, it's too much to still be angry with him. You have enough to focus your anger on right now. And being here, seeing his face with that scruffy beard he decided to grow for God knows what reason, well, it satisfies a lot of fantasies you've had lately when you were trying to lull yourself to sleep.

You don't know what to say next, so you stammer a bit, a croak coming out of the back of your throat. "Do you wanna get a drink, or something?" You don't even realize you say it out loud, but you're more surprised when he nods, pivoting so that he's facing towards you, looking you directly in the eye.

"I'd love that. Where to?"  
You end up in some little bar you've never been to, one that was around the corner from the pharmacy you were just in. You both order, a beer for him and a ginger ale and a whiskey ginger for you. He seems nervous, his leg bouncing up and down as you glance back and forth at the table and the tv.

"So, I, uh. I heard about everything. You holding up ok?"

"I'm… Yeah. I'm fine." You think about last night, how you combined your migraine medication and half a bottle of wine, and the night before that, when you almost passed out in the shower. You think about last week, how you lost your shit at your desk and ran until your legs stung, until you were blocks away from the precinct and you'd been gone for two hours and no one asked if you were okay. You felt like you could never stop thinking, and like every sense was either dulled to nothing or was an assault on your body.

So you weren't exactly doing _great,_ but it was better than it had been. You were working - slowly, surely getting there. And things were easier now that it was just you in the house. Had you known that living by yourself was a step towards you getting better, you'd have broken up with Brian a long time ago.

"Come on, Liv." You sip your drink carefully, a spark igniting in you. Like he cared so much, you had to catch him on the street, have a chance encounter, in order to get him to check in on you. That should've been an offense, and you should have been asking a lot of _why's._ Why didn't he call, or stop by? Did he even know about it, and if so, what did he think? Your mind wanders for a moment, imagining all the thoughts that have run through his head about what happened to you.

"Olivia?" He's patting the top of your hand, rubbing his thumb against your knuckle. "Where'd you go just now?"

"I was just thinking about the last few months." You give his hand a squeeze, relishing the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his calloused fingertips. "How have you been?"

"I guess, well." He sighs, pulling away from you and crossing his arms over his chest. "It's been a little rough. Kath and I split up earlier this year, and I've been living back in the city. Still see the kids all the time, Maureen and Kathleen and Dickie are all in this neck of the woods, and I get Eli on the weekend."

"Elliot, I'm so sorry." And you are, very, very sorry for him. No wonder he looks so rough, he's been on his own for the first time in decades. You understand what it's like, to watch everything fall apart so quickly.

He's the one nervously sipping his drink now, trying to give himself liquid courage. "Yeah, been kind of a shit year for both of us, huh?"

"To put it lightly." You cough a little, leaning into your chair.

"Liv, I." He stops talking, needing more beer before he continues. "Look, I'm not expecting you tell me anything. I know I wasn't around, and I should have been. I wanted to call you, I was just afraid of hurting you more."

Maybe it's the meds, or the whiskey that makes you braver than you normally would be. "Were you just afraid of finding out what happened?"

He shrugs. "Maybe a little. Yeah."

"I'm not going to make you listen to the sordid details, don't worry."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that… fuck." He runs his fingers through his hair, his knee bouncing at high speed now. "If you wanted to talk to someone, _anyone,_ I'm here. Even just for a laugh, or to get your mind off of things once in awhile. I want to be there for you."

It's your turn to sigh now, after another coughing jag. Elliot's beginning to look concerned, so you pull out the OTCs you'd so hurriedly bought a few minutes ago and pop a few.

"Just a cold." You explain, tossing the aspirin and Mucinex back. He doesn't question you washing it all down with whiskey and ginger ale, but a concern flashes across his face. "Anyway, I think that'd be nice. I just… I'm not good at needing people, you know?" You gulp, anxiety suddenly clutching your body. "I'm okay, though. I swear. I have a therapist, I'm doing the work."

"I know, Liv. Just thought it would be nice for you to know I'm still on your team."

You think back to that bedroom, to pacing against the floor as your body stung all over, as the room glowed from all the drugs you were coming down from, as you watched Lewis writhe around on the ground.

 _My old partner, he'd know what to do with you._

Your breath is ragged as you look back up at Elliot, and you swallow back tears that you can feel springing from the corners of your eyes.

"What?"

"Fuck." You laugh a little, your body loosening like you knew it eventually would. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this, it's not enough that I'm all doped up and drinking, on top of the -" You don't want to say it. You don't like admitting that anything is wrong with you, especially clinically.

"I get it, Liv."

There's no way he can 'get' anything without knowing. Without having been there, without having seen the downward spiral that happened after your partnership ended. You know he's heard things, on and off the job, you know he's probably asked about you, someone that had some detail he so desperately needed. And as much as you don't want him to think about you during those days and nights that you were 'away', you want to spill your guts so that there's someone in it with you.

A tiny, residual part of you wants to tell him everything for selfish reasons, too. You want to get back at him for leaving you without a word, want him to choke up like you did in interrogation when you knew he'd never be coming back.

But you're taking what you can get right now, and you need a friend. As much as you've unexpectedly enjoyed your newfound alone time, you've been a little more than lonely on several occasions. The talk can come later, about why he left in such a rush, about why you're so much more closed off and jaded and fucking secretive. You'll acknowledge the changes in him with time, but you need to get home and lay down before you almost conk out from mixing your meds and alcohol. _Smart fucking choice, Olivia,_ you say to yourself. _What's next, Vicodin and vodka cocktails after work?_

"How far do you live from here?"

"Mm, few blocks. Why?"

"Do you wanna walk me home? I'm across the street, and I'm a little, well." You glance down at your glass, almost empty. "I would just feel better if someone was with me." He doesn't reply right away, just staring into your eyes. It's too intense, so you stare down at your hands, as you hurriedly add "And I don't care if you come up, you can stick around for as long as you want, it would just be nice to catch up and -"

"Of course Liv." His hand is back on yours, and it's such a comfort that you can't help but smile a little. "I'm happy to walk you back."


	3. Bang, Bang

**_A/N: This is chapter 3! Takes place post "Beast's Obsession". Again, I'm playing with timelines here, let me know how you feel in the comments!_**

 _February 2014_

Brian's on top of you, pawing at your right breast as you try to hold completely still, numbing in and out as he sucks on your nipple. You feel his dick against you, and he glances up at you curiously as if waiting for the go ahead. You nod, spreading your legs a little further apart.

You're not sure where it comes from, where you get the balls, but as he quickens the pace, you urge Brian's wrist towards your neck, taking hold of his hand and trying to wrap it around your skin. His fingers settle against you, a loose grip that you aren't entirely satisfied with. His hand starts to creep back down to where you two are joined, even though you're taking care of yourself and there's not a lot of room between the two of you.

You try again, with a little more force this time, pressing down on the top of his hand and wrapping his fingers tighter, holding them there for a few seconds before he pulls away, and pulls out of you.

"What the FUCK, Liv?"

You don't realize how angry he looks for a moment, and you throw the sheet over yourself so that he can't see you as you turn away, talking to the wall.

"I just want to try it out."

"Okay, but we need to talk about this. What if I don't _want_ to hurt you?"

"I don't think it hurts, though, Brian. I- I like it."

A look of disgust crosses over his face. "Why?"

Exasperated, you throw your hands up in the air before you get up, putting your discarded t shirt and pants back on and padding into the kitchen, where you pour yourself a glass of water and pull out a bottle of wine.

He's hot on your tail, in boxers and his robe that he leaves at your place. "So that's it, then? Not gonna talk about it, you're just gonna drink."

You remember a few weeks ago, when Brian accidentally touched the long, purpling scar below your breast, how he let his fingers sit there for awhile and all of the sudden your skin was crawling, because you hated him touching you but you also wanted more, you wanted hands yanking your hair and you wanted to shed your skin and go back to how it was before, before you had this sick need and before he had to avoid certain ways of touching you, before things became so fucking complicated. "Shut the fuck up, Bri."

"I'm just saying, you have a habit of not finishing conversations."

"And I'm just saying I don't want to talk about it, okay?" You head to the couch, glass in each hand, and face yourself towards the window.

"I don't know what to tell you, Liv. I care too much about you to do anything that could, that would…"

"What?" You're still facing the window, looking away from him when you start talking. "You think I'm gonna get 'triggered' and cry during sex, that I'm gonna regret you being a little rough with me? Has it ever occurred to you that it would make it better for me, that I'd enjoy myself more?"

You feel the couch dip behind you as he sits, still not touching the area around where you are sitting. "Do you not like what we've been doing, or -"

"I do, it's just… I always feel like something is missing."

"Like _what?_ Do you want me to tie you to the bed and fuck you, you want me to pretend like I'm attacking you, like you don't want to have sex but you actually do?"

You imagine Brian above you, hands tied behind your back as he enters you from behind. You imagine him coming at you with no warning, fucking you hard against the wall after you get home from work. His fingers in your mouth as you gag, as you groan in pleasure. You can feel yourself getting wet, and as much as it disturbs you, that your interests have gone this route, something about it all feels so _right._

You shift yourself around so that you can see him, just slightly. You're sipping your drink, you're avoiding eye contact. You want to respond, desperately, but you also don't want him knowing how fucked up you are, how much _he,_ that man, took away from you and replaced with someone who would happily die if it weren't for rough sex and the ten drinks you always seem to knock out before dinner.

"Olivia?" He reaches out to touch your shoulder, and you pull away.

"Don't fucking touch me, okay?"

He stands up, crossing his arms. Fear rises in your chest as he towers over you, and you feel like you should be begging him at this point - _nono stop, I'll be good for you, I swear, we can fix it, we can make it okay, just don't hurt me, please…_

"You know what? I think this whole trial messed with us, messed with you. And you never fucking tell me what's wrong! You act like it's all fine and you tell me you wanna fuck and then all of the sudden my hand is around your throat because you 'like it'".

His use of air quotes when he says that gets to you in another way. It affirms everything you hate about yourself, that you've hated since you were tied to a chair on the ground in your old apartment.

You're crying now, something you hate but something that's also become all too frequent during your treasured moments of intimacy when you and Brian are too turned on and/or drunk to care about doing any more damage. You read an article online about unhealthy relationships yesterday, and you remember checking "yes" in nearly every box on the self-assessment that was at the bottom of the page. That didn't surprise you at all, and you closed your laptop and went back to bed, sleeping until Brian eventually came home.

"Shit, Liv. I'm sorry, okay? But we gotta work on this, on us, because if we don't…" He trails off, looking out the window at the lights twinkling in the city. You know the feeling, of looking outside at the same old city, of wishing that you could be as immovable as the buildings and concrete outside. Why did things have to change? Why did it have to happen this way, when you were finally with someone you loved deeply and cared about so much?

You spend most nights driving yourself crazy with _why's._ And, as has become habit, your response isn't a verbal one, but picking up your glass and drinking more wine, trying to forget what happened.

"I don't- I'm sorry." You settle on apologizing, on assuring him of your facade of wellness that you aren't going to let crumble, no matter what happens. The trial is over, you think, and you're on a road to wellness that involves boozing and spending a lot of time in your shower, that requires silence on your behalf because it's better to have everything in your head. It's better to keep the nightmares limited to just you. "I won't ask you again, I'm sorry."

 _Please, stop yelling at me. I'll be a good girl, I promise._

"Yeah, whatever Liv." He goes into the bedroom, and you give it a while before you follow him in, lying down where you had been a few hours before, below him in bed. Before you fucked everything up.

He reaches out to you, and your arms automatically rise so that he can wrap himself around you. He's dozing, not really sure of what he's doing. But he wants you here, with him, and as much as you hate admitting it to yourself, it's one of the few things that gives you comfort anymore.


	4. Long Overdue

**_A/N: Here's chapter 4. I'm not super happy with the way this turned out, but I wanted to have a more subdued chapter before I get into any of the more ~intense~ stuff. Let me know what you think!_**

 _May 2014_

It's the third time this week that Elliot's passed out on your couch. You still haven't been over to his place, and you aren't planning on going anytime soon. You forgot the ease that he brings you, the comfort that is having a best friend who has your back.

You like it, and you aren't letting yourself get used to it any time soon.

Both of you have become heavy drinkers in the last three or so years since you were partners. He shotguns beer after beer, until his eyes are heavy and tired. You can't help but wonder if this is why Kathy left him (he's spared you a lot of the details, but you can tell that it was her call). Then again, you know very similar things led to the demise of you and Brian. So you pick up your wine glass and try not to ask too many questions.

You watch a lot of TV together, admire the skillful silences between the two of you. It's an old conversation pattern, one that was easy to slip back into. After all, you both had twelve years of practice, reading each other's faces and bodies. You knew him better than anyone, probably even yourself.

"Liv?" He mumbles sleepily, a carefulness in his voice.

"Hm?"

"D-do you ever… uh." He's slipping, either the alcohol or his nerves getting to him.

"What, El?"

"Did you ever think about us, after the job? What we'd be doin'? Like, would we still be friends, or… somethin' else?"

Your breath hitches in the back of your throat. Oh no, God. Not now. You can't have this conversation with him now, right after all this shit happened and you're just getting over Brian and…

He can sense your nervousness, even this late in the game. His hand reaches to brush your shoulder. "Relax. I just meant did you think we'd still be hangin' out like this?"

You shrug, his hand falling away from the fabric of your sweater. "I donno. I mean, I guess I always hoped that we'd stay in touch, but that kinda fell away after you left. Nick and I are, uh, 'friends'. More than you and I were, probably."

He tenses up at that comment, an old protectiveness claiming him as he nestles his beer a little bit closer to his chest. "Yeah, he doesn't know you like I did though."

"Come on, El. He's been with me for three years. He was there when I -" Again, it's like something in the back of your throat stops you from speaking, and all you can see is yourself coming out of that house, arms away from your torso and hair greased with four days worth of blood and sweat and God knows what else.

Elliot never saw you like that. You'd made a vow to yourself a long time ago that you'd kill yourself before he did.

"I get it. 'M sorry." He blows air out of his lips, falling against you a little. He smells like Bud Light, which is what he brought over for you two to 'share' (you never tell him you don't really like beer, or vodka. You don't want to open up any cans of worms, and your liquor preferences are a big one.)

Your eyes are fixed to the TV while you absorb the sensation of his body against yours, his warmth and his breath all falling on your skin. It feels nice, the way he caresses you in a way that you can only describe finding a body that fits in to yours. It's like you two are puzzle pieces, carved to form to each other. You hold each other in place, side by side.

You shiver as his lips brush against your neck. It's the most intimate you've been with him, hell with _anyone,_ in awhile. Sure, there were the hugs that happened after a tough case, the moments of tenderness that came when one of you had been gone for too long, but never anything like this. Never skin on skin, and especially not so soon after you'd almost -.

"You're thinkin' too much, Livia." He says, and you wonder if he can, in fact, read your mind.

You swallow more wine, turn off the TV, and turn towards him. "El, what do you want?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"I mean…" You pause, taking a moment to find words that don't sound too drunk or desperate. "We sit here, we drink, we talk sometimes, not about anything important. Do you just want that, or…"

He looks into your eyes, and it's so intense that you want to look away. But you stare right back at him, until he reaches up and kisses your lips tenderly, gently, barely any contact. But it feels like something's igniting within you. You've been waiting for this for so _long,_ long enough that you can't stop him even when old fears arise in the back of your head about this happening. Because it finally is, it's finally real.

He pulls away after a moment. "Was that ok?"

"I - yeah. That was…" Your eyes drift out the window and down, down, down. It feels like you're falling, and you look around to make sure that your apartment is still intact.

"We don't have to be anything you don't want. I just want to be with you, I guess. That's it."

You let him hold you for a while, as you listen to the sounds of traffic outside, the honking of cars and the soft voices that rise up to your floor. He starts dozing off, and you reach up and give him another kiss on the lips, then kiss his forehead. You can't help but notice the way he nuzzles into you. It's finally what you've wanted. You just didn't imagine it happening quite like this.


	5. Cat's Out of the Bag

**_A/N: This is chapter 5! Hopefully the narrative is starting to come together for everyone... I've really appreciated the comments I've gotten so far, keep leaving feedback for me. It helps so much! Enjoy, xx._**

 _February 2014_

Out of everyone, it's Nick who has to catch you having your daily cry in interrogation.

You'd been slipping away for months now, letting yourself fall apart during lunch break just in time to crawl back into the office and pretend like nothing happened. Sometimes it felt like you had no reason to cry, and you were just feeding into some tired old emotional habit. But today, you're crying because of Brian and you feel like an idiot. You can't stop beating yourself up, and you're resenting the moment that you go into the bathroom to splash cold water on your face. It's your reflection, just the idea of it, that's digging in. You're weak, a crybaby who can't hold it together at work.

Nick's nervously rubbing his palms together, and you're kicking yourself for not locking the door behind you, for not closing the shutters, and for facing the window like the goddamn idiot you are. Of _course_ he fucking saw you, it was only a matter of time.

"Everything all right?"

You wipe your face, looking like a kid whose hand just got caught in the cookie jar. "Yeah. 'M fine."

"Brian?" His eyes shoot downward, as if to say _don't lie to me, I've been crashing on your couch for the last month._

"I don't really want to talk about it."

Nick stands there for another minute, before he leans against the table. "So you're sneaking in here to cry for awhile and then… what? All better?"

You tried to hide it from him. The fighting, the panic you'd work yourself into before succumbing to drinking at all hours of the day (but, mostly, at night). You knew you were bound to mess up, to let some of your crumbling personal life slip into Nick's peripheral vision. But you'd figured you'd scare him away, that your problems would be too much for him to handle.

"It's not like that, Nick."

"Hey," He's across from you now, grabbing both of your hands in his. "If you can't talk to me, your partner, who can you trust?"

You laugh a little at that, and get a smirk out of him. He really does want to see you do well, and you feel bad for letting him down so much of the time.

"It's just, things haven't been the same since, well, you know…" And there go your eyes, blurring and drifting off as more tears fall. Because you feel terrible. You don't know how to fix your relationship, your squad, or even yourself. You're so fucking broken and it's beyond help. You know that, but the hope that the rest of the world instills in you to fix everything isn't making things any easier.

 _Your thoughts drift back to the night before, when Brian texted you that he'd be late coming back from work. You decided to be a good girlfriend for once in your life, and you'd used the little cooking skills you have to make a semi decent meal. Granted, it was just pasta and salad, but it was more effort than you usually go to and you figured that the night would end on an okay note, for the first time in weeks._

" _Hey baby," He said, walking through the door. "Smells good."_

 _It was almost 9pm by the time you sat down and ate. The meal was silent, except for an occasional grunt on his end._

 _You finally decide to break the quiet and ask him how his day was. He mumbled something about it being okay, about how he couldn't tell you much. "Not like you mind, confidentiality and all that." He said before taking another sip of his wine._

 _Something inside of you broke then, and you couldn't hold back. "Fuck, Brian. I just asked how your day was."_

" _Not so nice, getting no response, huh? Not knowin' how I'm doing, living this big fucking mystery all the time?"_

" _God, of fucking COURSE this has to be about you!" You stood up from the table, tossing your napkin on the chair. "I made a nice dinner, I really tried tonight Brian, and I wanted have this nice night in with you but you have to go and make it all about our 'communication issues' or whatever."_

 _You'd stormed off, into your bedroom, stripping down and going into the shower. You hadn't expected him to follow you, so you didn't lock the door as you turned the water on, all the way to the right, the hottest it would go._

 _The rumble of his voice startled you. "How am I supposed to do the dishes if you use up all the hot water again, Liv?"_

 _You peeled the shower curtain back so that only your head popped out. "Fuck off."_

"He always wants to know how I'm doing, and he expects me to write him a fucking essay on my feelings. Did it ever occur to him that I don't know how I'm doing, that I don't know if I'm okay, or if I ever will be?" You hear yourself saying aloud, rambling on and on to Nick.

"Have you told him this?"

"I tried!" You toss your hands in the air. "I told him that I'm not going to be the most direct person in the world, and that he needs to be okay with that. I don't… I'm not a talker. I never have been. When I was a little girl and something at school was bothering me, I never told anyone. Hell, when things at home were bothering me, I never said a damn thing. I put everything into boxes and then deal with it when I'm ready. It's how I've always dealt with things, and he can't expect me to change just because that's what he wants right now!"

Nick's staring at you in awe, probably because this is the most transparent you've ever been with him, hell, with anyone. "Do you talk to your therapist about this shit? I mean, that's probably a good place to figure this stuff out, right?"

You almost tell him to leave, to get the hell out for even bringing up your therapist. But you don't want to kick him out. The comfort of another person is nice, and not something you're used to. You don't want this ride to be over quite yet.

 _Later that night, you'd been lying in bed when Brian comes and curls up, away from you. Your hair's still wet, splayed out on a towel that you lied across a pillow._

" _You still pissed at me?" You finally ask._

" _Yeah."_

 _You turn around to face his back. He was still in his jeans._

" _I don't know what to do, Bri. I'm sorry, I really don't."_

" _You gotta talk to me, Liv. 'Cause I don't know what to do either. I wanna fix this, I just…" He rustles against the pillows, then finally turns towards you. He looked so tired, bags under his eyes, a weariness that you'd become accustomed to looking at since everything happened._

" _I can't tell you what happened to me." You tell him firmly. "I can't. I'm sorry."_

" _Why not?" And he's looking at you like he's begging for the smallest bit of insight into your mind. Something to grasp onto, anything. But you don't know what to give him. Anything that he doesn't know would make him fall out of love with you, and you don't know if you can handle losing him._

 _You lay in bed for awhile, until you feel your hair is pretty much dry and you get up to put the towel back in the bathroom. Your bathrobe slips away from you as you lean over the covers, and your left breast is left exposed, an angry red burn and a long, white scar in Brian's direct line of vision._

 _You yank the edge of the robe up nervously before crawling back under the covers quickly. Brian grabs your wrist._

" _Hey, wait. We've talked about that_. _You don't have to hide them from me."_

 _By 'them' he means the scars, the numerous ways that Lewis marred your body. He's seen pretty much all of them, but only in dim light. It still makes you nervous, the idea of having sex with all the lights in your bedroom on._

 _You curl away from him, covering your head with your hands. You can't even be naked in front of your own boyfriend without feeling ashamed, disgusted. What makes you think you can bare your mind to him in the same way you can barely stomach showing him your body?_

" _I wish you never saw." You tell him, unable to make eye contact, or even listen to his breathing. "I wish you'd left after it happened."_

"So, I'm guessing he's sleeping on the couch, right?"

"Well… yeah. Until we sort shit out."

Nick scrubs a hand over his face. "And what makes you think you'll sort it out this time? It sounds like you two have a lot of shit to deal with in order to make this work."

You sigh, rolling your shoulders a little. It's a thought you have every day, the voice in the back of your head that tells you that things will only get better when you start talking. _Healing begins when another person bears witness._ It's a line you've said to victims countless times, but one you've been struggling to swallow yourself.

"I don't think he can take it."

"What? The story? I mean, he knows what happened. To some extent, we all do."

That's what drives you crazy - knowing that, on some level, everyone you know imagines you in Lewis' car, imagines what happened to you in the house. You've been tight lipped on details, of course, but you know from personal experience that it's easy to imagine the worst possibilities. You're sure Brian imagined you being raped by Lewis - you're sure that everyone did, at some point.

"Maybe that's why it isn't working." You bite your lip, the sting of raw skin on teeth levelling your feet on the floor. "I wish I could erase it all, pretend that it never happened. I wish his memory were clean."

"We all wish we could have gotten to you sooner, Liv. There isn't a person in this building that will tell you otherwise."

"Yeah. Well," You prop the door open with your foot, getting ready to go back and face the rest of your unit. "Good thing that didn't happen."


	6. Good Morning

**_A/N: There's some Lewis details in this chapter, but nothing too explicit/disturbing (yet). Otherwise this is pretty mild, some consensual sex at the end and alcohol abuse throughout. Enjoy, and don't forget to fave/review!_**

 _May 2014_

You wake up clawing at your sheets, reeling in another nightmare. It's a common occurrence, one that's always terrifying and heart racing and that makes you pace around your apartment for hours. You just aren't used to company that wakes up with you.

"Everything good?" Elliot asks, sitting up in bed. He's fully clothed, as per the rules you had set for you and him (sleeping fully clothed in bed, no staying over two nights in a row, only your place, no sex yet…) and waiting for the okay to touch you.

"Yeah, I need water." You bolt to the kitchen, hands resting against the cool marble of the countertop. You blink, once, twice, look out at the city lights. You're getting better at 'grounding' yourself, finding little sensory moments to cling onto that bring you out of that beach house and back to your current, slightly less hellish, reality.

You drink half a glass of water, savoring how cold it feels running down your throat, a heaven away from the burn of liquor that you can still feel in dreams. Elliot comes out of the bedroom, watching you carefully from the hall. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Your eyes tilt downward, hair falling in front of your face. There's no way either of you are going back to sleep anytime soon, so you might as well make a night out of it. "Only if you crack open a bottle."

"He started at my old place, burned me with keys, cut me with a hot knife…" You need more wine in order to get through this conversation, and Elliot's only on his first beer. You pray to God that the new guy at the liquor store won't know your name by the end of the month. "I was tied and gagged to a chair, I don't remember much. He gave me pills, some other drugs. God knows what else, I was so doped up I'm surprised I remember that much."

His hands reach out to caress yours, to comfort you as you talk. But human contact would be too much for you right now - you know that. So you pull away, wrapping your knuckles around your wine glass. "He kept saying… things… about how no one was going to come looking for me. And it was true, no one checked in until two days later, and by then he had me in the back of the car, tied up and, fuck," You gulp down wine, faster so that it burns. "I was coming down off of the drugs, and I was planning what I was gonna do. But it just got harder, and harder. And I hurt all over because he kept beating me…" It's at this point in the story that your brain always turns to mush, like there's something stopping you from going on. Even though you _know_ what happened, where you were, what he did, relatively, you still can't verbalize it. Something inside of you tells you that will never change.

"We got to this house, he tied me to the bed." You can feel tears coming on now, and you feel humiliated and weak in front of Elliot, in front of someone you had crafted this strong persona for. "I… He took me into the bathroom and he." Drink. Swallow. Drink. Swallow. "He uh…"

"Hey, Liv." He pulls one of your hands towards him, with force. "You don't have to tell me all of this, if it's not good for you. You know?"

You chuckle. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm just nervous after…" You don't want to say _after Brian left me because he couldn't take my silence._ "Do you know how hard it is to date someone who thinks you've been raped? And he's insistent on it, like it's some truth that you can't even face!" You throw your hands up in the air and start to pace around the kitchen.

"Did he… do that to you? Did he rape you, Olivia?"

You know he's only asking because he wants to know the truth, all of the facts. He's really gathering data for himself, and you know he's motivated by different factors than Brian was.

"No, I wasn't. He almost…" You stare down at your bare feet, the pinkness of your flesh against the cool tile in the kitchen. "He sexually assaulted me. Many, many times, El. A lot. But he never…"

He rubs the top of his head with his hands, then takes a break to sip his beer before he starts rambling. "Did you ever think, in all our years working special victims, that there's not a real difference? It all does the same damage…"

"Yeah, well." You put your hands on your hips, and sigh. "I'm definitely damaged goods."

"Whaddya mean?"

"I like to, uh," _Fuck._ You told yourself you'd be honest with him, or as honest as you could be. Telling him about Lewis failed, and you didn't even get to part two of the story, where you willingly sought him out to finish the job. So you might as well go ahead and reveal another sordid detail about your life, even if it costs you this relationship with Elliot.

You sit back down. "Something happened after the first attack. I started liking rough sex…" Your eyes drift away from Elliot because you know it's not going to be good for you to stare at him while you explain this. "I tried it with Brian but he was always afraid of hurting me. It's not that I'm a sadist or anything! It just feels - "

"It's comforting, kinda cathartic." He nods. He _gets_ it. You never thought you'd be this relieved, but _he,_ of all people, gets it.

"Yeah, exactly! It feels like I'm working through, I donno, something big."

"Makes sense." Elliot gets up from the table, going to the fridge for another beer. You notice that he's on his third bottle, and when did he get up for as second? You shake your head, forgetting about it for now. "I don't know if there's anything wrong with that, I mean, you've got a shrink, right?"

"You seem a lot less angry about this than you could be."

"Wait until I get another bottle in me, babe." And since when is he calling you that?

"Oh - okay."

You both sit in the kitchen for a while, the conversation switching to you talking about the unit. The sun starts to peek up, the digital clock on the oven telling you that it's almost six am and wow, you should really be getting ready for work.

"I should probably go shower, or something." You say, resting your head against the kitchen table. "Thank you for staying up with me, you can, uh, sleep over or shower or whatever you need to do."

"I, yeah. Thanks Liv." He's tired, and pretty drunk from what you can tell. You kiss the top of his head as you get up, before he starts tugging on your arm to hold you back.

"I'll always stay up with you, jus' so you know. I wanna be here for you…" You can't help it, you lean down and give him a kiss on the mouth, deepening it. He slips his tongue in, and suddenly everything around you evaporates. It's as if you are the only two people on the planet, having spent all this time in the middle of the night awake together, and the world is urging you back into its clutches.

Stupid world.

"I wanna…" He pushes up the hem of your shirt, revealing the skin of your hip, a bite mark and a long scar visible just above the waistband of your pants.

"Elliot…" You hesitate, because you know it's too soon, for both of you. But you also want a release, something to tide you over. And you can feel a headache setting in from a night of steady alcohol consumption, so you know you'll show up to work a few minutes late and a little fucked up anyway. What was the difference?

So, in a rash decision, you wind up bent over the back of the couch as Elliot drives into you, over and over. It feels so good, like all the years of pent up frustration and mutual attraction to each other have come to a head. This is it, you think. This is all I've needed to get better.

It feels like healing, him between your legs and inside of you. You tug at his hands, which at first wrap around yours. You tug his wrists higher, and higher, until…

When he comes, his hands are loosely wrapped around your neck. He tugs at your hair when his release starts, and you're falling apart too.

"Olivia, I…" He grunts, and pulls out of you. Neither of you bothered undressing much, so he just tugs up his boxers, while you stand up again, adjusting your sleep pants so it's almost like nothing happened.

As you shower, you think about how no one besides you knows that you've been spending so much time with Elliot, that you just had sex with him, that he held you around your throat like you'd fantasized about since you were taken…

You stare at yourself in the mirror for longer than usual, at the key shaped scars that litter your torso, the places you were knifed. The way your flesh has melded as you've aged into your forties, no longer tight but round and warm. Did you really want Elliot to see you, like this? You could feel shame rushing into your face, especially considering that you're pretty sure he _knows_ how afraid you are, how much you hate yourself, and feel a disconnect with who you are. How could he not after what you told him that night?

You pull on jeans and a blouse, fixing your hair enough before rushing out. Elliot's on the couch, his eyes closing as he watches CNN.

"Bye, Liv. Have a good day." He slurs.

You wave at him, mouthing 'thank you' before you close the door.


	7. The Sun and Moon

**_A/N: All right, we're jumping ahead in the timeline as I attempt to build intrigue in this story. More depressing chapters will come, but enjoy this kinda fluffy foray into the future._**

 _October 2017_

You're staring at yourself in front of the sink, observing the way your skin ripples under the white lights of your bathroom. A long, tapering pink scar runs under the edge of your right breast, thick in the middle and skinny at the ends. It's the worst one, the thing you like the least about yourself. You remember when Brian used to brush it, and it felt like the knife was being driven into you all over again.

Elliot comes in behind you to brush his teeth, and he notices how you've bundled your towel in front of your mouth.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Mm. Mmhmm."

He looks at you curiously, before picking up his toothbrush and the toothpaste that you had left discarded by the sink, cap off. You shake your head and sigh, pulling your gaze away from your body.

You feel like screaming - it's a common occurrence and something you do when Elliot isn't at your place, when you know Noah's asleep in bed. You scream into your towel until you feel better, usually after a scalding hot shower. You haven't told anyone about this habit before, mostly because you're afraid it would make you seem crazy. And you're doing a lot better, _finally,_ so you don't want to seem like too much of a nutcase.

You put on an old t-shirt and shorts, settling into bed. Elliot comes and curls up next to you after a few minutes, his hand wrapping around your torso. "You have your thinkin' face on. What's up?"

"Nothing." You laugh a little, trying to throw him off. It doesn't work; that man can read you like a book.

"I want to know, Liv."  
You pace your sentence awkwardly, pausing a lot as you try to think of the right way to phrase your thoughts. "I don't really like… the way I, uh, the way I look."

"Oh." You feel him tighten around you as he pulls you in closer. It's not something that you ever verbalized, but it's something that he's picked up on by now. "What about it bothers you?"

You trace the outline of his tattoo with your fingers - something you often do when you're nervous and talking to him. "I don't know, really. Guess I've just felt generally detached from my body for a long time." That's only part of it, you know, but it's not really like you understand what's going on with you well enough to describe anything more.

"So you don't feel like you're 'in' yourself?"

"Yeah."

He looks down at you, dead in the eyes. "Isn't that a PTSD thing?"  
You nod. "I've talked to my therapist about it. Just a little."

"That's good, though, right? You're working on it."

"Sort of."

He gives you a kiss on the forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment. "Well, I'll always think you're beautiful, even when you don't feel that way about yourself."

"Sometimes…" You exhale deeply, trying to bide your time and keep yourself from bursting into tears, or rushing out of the room. "I wish I could see you like you see me. It's just exhausting looking at myself through this tunnel, all this shit I used to be and what I used to do. Because now I'm north of fifty, I have perpetual bags under my eyes, I have a huge scar under my - "

He interrupts you with laughter, of all things. "I've been wanting to name that scar for a while now, actually. Can we?"

You can't help but smile at how ridiculous he is, which was probably his secret plan all along - he always says something weird to cheer you up. "Yeah. What's your idea?"

"I don't know. Something big and mighty. Like Bertha, or Ethel. Sounds like a strong grandmother."

"God, El." You laugh a little more, feeling relieved that he has a sense of humor about all the ways in which your body has been marred. You remember feeling so insecure when you started having sex with each other, knowing that he'd seen you in your prime when you were a 35 year old version of badass Benson, with a slim bod and choppy hair. But he'd never made any comments about your appearance, other than _you're so fucking beautiful_ and _I always dreamt of seeing you this way._ So you knew it didn't matter to him, and sex with all the lights on was something you both now regularly engaged in (something that you once swore to yourself would never happen with anyone again, ever).

He turns over, his hands on either side of you, palms digging into the mattress. "I love every part of you." He says, kissing your lips, your neck, down to your collarbone. "I love your body, and your mind, and especially these." He nuzzles your breasts, and you're caught giggling again. "I love your eyes, and the way you look when you laugh at me for being ridiculous." He hikes up the hem of your shirt, up to the middle of your breasts. He plants a soft, quick kiss on the large scar, Ethel or Bertha, and then on a few of the dotted scars around it - marks from cigarette butts and keys that stopped fading long ago, settling into the caramel hue of your skin. "I love your skin, and I know it hurts you to look at yourself sometimes. I know it's a reminder of something that killed you before, but it only made you stronger." He's looking into your eyes again, staring directly at the center of you. "And I wish you could see yourself like I see you. You're the sun I revolve around, every waking moment. I wish you could feel that way about yourself, Olivia, because it's what you deserve."

You can't help that you feel tears stinging the edges of your eyes now as he looks at you, as he kisses your lips and you kiss him back. "I love you, Elliot." You say to him, wrapping a leg around his waist.

You fall asleep with Elliot's lips pressed to your shoulder, forgetting the scar there, focussing on the sensation of his skin on yours, forgetting your sea of flaws momentarily.


	8. Time Slows Down

**_A/N: After a holiday induced hiatus, I'm back with a new chapter! Warnings for an entire chapter about Olivia losing her GD mind. As always, please comment and review if you want to see more!_**

 _April_ 2014

In many ways, it's a relief not having Brian in the house anymore. He's moved out most of his things, come by to box stuff up when you haven't been home. It gives you the space you need, late at night, to curl up on your kitchen tile. You're in a tank top and underwear, an outfit that you never would have worn around when you and Brian were still together. You never wanted him to see a peek of your skin, at least not when you could help it.

But now, the hem of your shirt urges up as you rest your body on the floor of the kitchen, your back against the sink. A wave of panic had overwhelmed you a few minutes earlier, and you didn't think as you sank your body down, down, down until you were flat on the ground, hair spread around you as if in a halo.

This was something you'd done before, laid on the floor of your apartment to stave off a breakdown, but it was never something you could just do whenever you wanted. You were terrified that if Brian saw you this way, ever, all bets would be off. He'd have you shipped off to the nearest psychiatric ward with no questions asked - "hey, my girlfriend can't move her limbs because she was shaking so badly, now she's sprawled out with her face down and in the carpet". You could take being crazy, but it's not like you wanted anyone in your life to know how bad off you were.

As sensation creeps back into your hands and feet, you try to trace what happened, what led you to your current position. You remember coming home from work, throwing your purse on the couch and changing out of your too tight jeans (that hadn't been tight a few weeks earlier, you'd noted loathingly). Something about the TV… you'd turned on the TV and the first story was about a Vice cop that had gone rogue and shot a bystander on the street during a drug bust. Or maybe homicide… The cop's face was displayed on the screen, and you were stunned when a smiling, young woman's mug greeted you. Everything else had led you to believe that only a man would go that far off the rails, fatally kill someone like that in the line of duty. What if that was you?

It was downhill from there, but you still couldn't figure out why, what had sent you spiraling into hyperventilating and heart palpitations. This was typical, according to your therapist. Your body was still reacting to the first Lewis attack, and after the second… well, you weren't sure if you'd ever go back to who you had been a year or two earlier.

You'd been taking antidepressants, a whole cocktail to keep your body and mind at ease. You hadn't been drinking as much, except on weekends, when all bets were off for yourself. Brian had popped in once or twice to say hello, make sure you were eating and showering mostly. It wasn't that you weren't taking care of yourself so much that you didn't realize what you were doing 90% of the time, simply going through the motions that felt familiar.

"I gotta get out of here" you think to yourself, rotating your neck so that your left cheek can rest against the tile. It cools you in a grounding sort of way, a temperature shift that allowed you to take the time you needed to get back into your body. You do what your therapist told you to, wiggle your fingers and toes, rotate your wrists and ankles. Your mind is clearing, you don't feel as hazy and lost as you did… however long ago. Your sense of time has been all kinds of fucked up lately, which Lindstrom says is normal. That affirmation doesn't make it any less disturbing, and you wish more than anything that time would stop being such a fucking blur.

As you urge yourself up, moving your knees back and forth, you shuffle over to the fridge, taking a glass out of the sink for water. You think about how much better you are at calming yourself down now, even when you can constantly feel Lewis' hands around you, trailing lower and lower, the clink of his belt buckle…

You shake your head. _Snap out of it Olivia, Jesus. What the hell's the matter with you? It's like you WANT to be this miserable all the time._

Maybe that was true. You weren't sure about anything, so who was to say? It was only a matter of time before you got lost in your own head again, thoughts overwhelming you at a dizzying rate and your sense of anxiety and fear overwhelming your ability to just live.

Fuck the water, you think. It had been a rough night. You pull out a bottle of wine. You'd earned a fucking drink.


	9. Lifeline

_June 2014_

You're watching TV after the baby goes to sleep, Elliot next to you on the couch. He's tipsy, and so are you - not as much as usual, though. If there was one thing that got you back on the wagon in any respect, it was parenting an infant.

You've had Elliot over less and less since Noah was placed into your custody. He was your last chance at motherhood in a lot of ways, and you were determined not to fuck it up. And after a year of fuck ups, you had to play it safe.

Elliot's dick is pressed hard into your hand, and you've been rubbing his shaft slowly for the past couple of minutes.

"Mm, fuck, Liv. That feels good…" You hear him mumble, and you can't help but smile. Your sex drive had taken a nosedive in the last few weeks, with the stress of work, custody hearings, and your own internal monologue driving you up the wall. But now that Elliot was here… well, he did have a way of always being able to change things for you.

You nuzzle his neck, kissing the nape as your hand wraps around him tighter. You have no idea what's playing on TV - all you can focus on is the sensation of his skin on yours, how good it feels to have him back in your apartment, and the way his breathing becomes more erratic with each stroke of your palm.

"I always knew what I was doing with my hands." You tell him, jokingly, as both of you shift to lean on the arm of the sofa. Bodies pressed against each other, your skin flushes and gets hot. It had been a few weeks, maybe even a month since the two of you had last had sex. He'd been hesitant unless you initiated, which was something you were used to. Brian was the same way, and you were sure it was for similar reasons. However, a 'yes' from you was all it took for Elliot to ravish you. He wasn't afraid to be more than a little rough - something you loved about him.

"Do you wanna -" You're interrupted by a cry from the baby monitor you'd installed earlier that day, the reason why Elliot had come over in the first place.

(You had called him, and after two rings, he'd picked up. "I'm assuming you know a lot about baby shit" you'd said. He told you he'd be over in five minutes, and then hung up).

"I'll be right back." You drop his dick, rushing in to check on Noah. He isn't wet or hungry, so you hold him for a little while until he falls back asleep in your arms, and you place him back in the crib tenderly, terrified you're going to rouse and upset him all over again.

Elliot's standing in the doorway when you turn around, his arms crossed. "You're a really good mom. Always knew you'd be."

"Thanks, honey." You give him a quick kiss on the forehead and his eyes close. "Now," You say, voice lowering. "You were asking me if I wanted to…"

You're panting for air as Elliot slips out of you. Facedown on the bed, with the lights off, just how you like it. He still hasn't seen the full extent of the scars that dot your breasts and torso, trailing down, down, down… It isn't that you are embarrassed, more so afraid that he's going to go apeshit and smash a lamp or glass onto the floor.

You still let him hold your wrists in his hands as he fucks you, your fingers eventually going numb from the ceaseless pressure. It adds to the experience, his dead weight on top of you as he slams his dick into you. You don't tell him how much you love it, ever, because something gets stuck in your throat after you have sex and renders you incapable of speech.

His hand brushes your shoulder, over a thick white scar that digs into your shoulder blade. He kisses the skin quickly, massaging your back. "That was so good, Liv."

"I know." You exhale, relishing the contact again of his skin on yours, the buzzing sensation that tells you something about him is so _right,_ even if a tiny part of you knows that neither of you are healthy enough right now to be doing this. To be this… couple that you've been pretending to be for a few months now.

You sit in silence for a while, letting him trail his fingers up and down your back like he's trying to memorize parts of your body.

And then, and then. A question you should have asked a long time ago finally crosses your mind, and you're speaking before you think.

"Why is your place so close to mine?"

"What?" Even in the darkness, you can read the shock on his face, feel the tension that creeps into his body after the words leave your mouth. "Like, why is my apartment near yours, or?"

"Yeah. And I've never been over. I was just wondering why, and if I." You take a moment, breathe once. Then breathe again. "If you knew that I was living here."

"It's a studio, Liv. It's a bed and a kitchenette and a washer dryer that I bought discounted. Not much to see."

"I… But you're still near me. Did you know?"  
He stands up, slipping on his boxers and going into your bathroom. Shutting the door, you hear him taking a piss. When he comes back out, he crawls back into bed, careful not to touch you.

"Yeah. I knew you lived here."

"Oh my God."  
"I can explain it…"

"You hire a PI? Some old buddy of yours that retired and started his own little side business? How did you find out?" You knew it couldn't have been through the phone book, or the Internet. You'd make sure that your location was virtually untraceable, especially after Lewis broke in. And now, especially that you had a baby in the house.

"No, I just asked around. People knew Cassidy, less people knew you. I just… found it."

"Yeah, okay."

He exhales. "I don't get why it's a big deal."

You sit up in bed. "Because you went out of your way to find me. And then get a shitty apartment near mine. Which, by the way, is no small feat. I can't believe you -"

"What? You can't believe I would want to be near someone I knew, someone I was determined to be on good terms with again?" He glances down, noticing how you've pulled the covers up around yourself, before he turns on the light on the nightstand next to him. "After everything happened with Kathy, I knew I had to come back and make things right with you. I lost everyone I cared about, Liv. That started with you. I'm not gonna forgive myself anytime soon."

"But it still doesn't explain why you… Can you see my apartment from here?"

"What the fuck?"

"You wanted to protect me."

"Olivia. Shut up."

You're defiant. It's like he's forgotten you've known each other for nearly two decades, like his face isn't one you know as well, if not better, than your own. "Tell me I'm not right."

"Liv, can't we drop it?"

You roll your eyes, leaning back against the pillows. "Whatever."

It's another silence, this one uncomfortable, not basking in post coital glow. Feeling has returned to your hands, and you flex your fingers a few times under the sheets.

Elliot's hand grazes your cheek. "I should probably go home. I'm seein' Eli tomorrow. Kathy's bringing him to Central Park, and then we're going to a baseball game. Gotta get up early."

He dresses quickly, hovering over you as he pulls on his t-shirt. He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hey, Liv?"

"Huh?"

"I love you. You know that, right? Always have."

"Yeah, okay. I hope you have fun with Eli tomorrow." You roll back over, listening to his footsteps as he exits your apartment.

You turn off the light once you hear the door close.


	10. Afterschool Special

**_A/N: This is a really smutty chapter that I wrote because I was bored. So... probably not my best work, but eh. I wanted to take a little bit of a ~scandalous~, but still overall happy detour. Enjoy!_**

 _July 2017_

"Mommy, Mommy!"

You hear the patter of tennis shoes against tile as Noah comes speeding towards you, full force. Elliot's head pops around the corner as Noah's weight comes crashing into your side. For a kid who is barely 45 pounds, he sure packs in a punch.

"I drawed you something at camp! Look!" He shows you a shockingly advanced sketch of a lily flower - which he knows are your favorite. "I colored it and everything. Do you like it?"

You forego correcting his grammar (after all, he's only 5) in favor of gently taking the image out of his hands. He's already demonstrated some artistic talent, constantly wanting to color and draw, but you never imagined that he'd have these kinds of skills yet. Was that cross hatching that you saw in the corner?

"You did this by yourself?" You ask, shifting your glance from the paper to his doe eyes.

"Yeah! Miss Jeanette helped me pick the colors but I did it all alone."  
"We have a mini Monet on our hands, Liv." Elliot's smiling, his arms crossed. "Good thinking, sending him to that art program."

Noah's preschool teacher had told you about a program at a high school near your house that offered summer art classes and workshops for kids from age 5 to 14. You'd signed him up, thinking that it would probably be better than him hanging out with Lucy or Elliot all day. You didn't have to worry about him being bored or getting into trouble (which wasn't a concern with Lucy, but you'd had to clean up a fair amount of messes that he and Elliot had managed to make around your apartment before). And now, he was bringing home stuff like this, you wondered if you'd accidentally signed him up for one of those intensives that parents looking to get their kids into private kindergarten would clamor to join. Noah didn't seem too pressed about it, though, already digging through the toybox you kept near the TV.

Elliot, eyes still trained on Noah, steps over to give you a kiss on the forehead. "How was your day, babe?"

"It was fine. More paperwork than usual." And your back hurt, but you weren't mentioning that until later tonight. "You smell like cigarettes."

"You mind it?"

"No. Ed smoked."

You feel him tense up the slightest bit at the mention of your ex. You'd tried to have conversations with him about both Ed and Brian, how he didn't need to feel threatened whenever you brought either of them up. Oddly enough, it was Brian who still made him angry. He "didn't get" what you saw in Ed, but he'd never really questioned you about it either.

"Yeah, I uh, went to a meeting today. Caffeine and nicotine are good substitutes for drinking, you know? Always a pack of cigarettes and a pot of coffee being passed around."

You smile a little, though your concern is probably still visible. Elliot had been going to more AA meetings than usual lately, and, though you didn't want to push him, you still wished he talked to you more about what was making him want to drink so badly.

"Everything's good, right? Or at least okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I'm not gonna do anything crazy without letting you know first." He presses another kiss to your skin before heading over to the fridge. "You wanna figure out dinner?"

"I was thinking we'd just get pizza. I'm really tired, El."

"Oh, okay. That works." He turns his head, closing the refrigerator door. "Hey buddy, what kind of pizza do you want tonight?"

"Pepperoni!" You hear Noah yell, which both of you had figured anyway. He never wanted anything else, his five year old palate tuned to the simpler tastes in life.

You shift so that your elbows are resting against the countertop, watching Noah play with two toy trucks quietly on the carpet. Making car noises with his mouth, he carefully rolled them across the floor before going up the coffee table.

"Liv?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"You okay?"

You shake your head a little, turning to partially face Elliot. "Yeah, fine. Sorry."

"You seem a little stressed out."

You were always stressed out, and usually more than 'a little'. Not that you ever talked about it - most of the causes of your stress were things you couldn't really help anyway, like work, the bureaucracy of the NYPD, and worrying that something crazy would happen to Noah. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Do you want me to uh, take your mind off of it for a little bit?"

"Hmm…" You step closer to him, trailing your fingers against his arm. You check on Noah again, still playing in the living room. "Maybe for just a little while."

He laughs. "Tellin' me it's gonna be a quickie, huh?"

You grab his hand, walking out to where Noah is. "Hey, honey. Are you okay playing by yourself in here for a little bit?" He nods his head, telling you that he's feeling a little sleepy.

"Oh. Do you want to take a nap, baby?"

"Not yet."

"Okay, well. We're just going to be in the other room, is that okay? You can knock if you need anything."  
After you make sure that he's totally, completely fine with the both of you being in the next room over with the door closed, you head towards the bedroom. Elliot's hand is already riding up your shirt, and you unbutton his jeans after locking the door. "I hate doing this. It makes me feel trampy."

"We fuck with him in the house all the time, Liv."

You giggle. "Yeah, but not when he's awake."

"I guess you're right. Also, who says 'trampy' anymore?"

"Just… shut up."

You both fall into bed after stripping down, and Elliot immediately takes your wrists in his hands and presses them against the mattress. It's become old hat, letting him hold you in this way.

You spread your legs wide, not needing to get into any foreplay - both of you have had a long day, and you suspect that this was Elliot's plan all along, getting you into bed before dinner. He quickly rubs a finger against your clit, pressing up inside of you before his dick starts pounding into you. You're more than ready for it - it's been a few days since you two have last had sex, and you'd grown accustomed to a certain routine and level of sexual activity. You never thought this would happen in your fifties, let alone after everything else…

"Fuck, baby." He pushes into your deeper, his hands unlocking your wrists to intertwine with your fingers. "That drawing was so fuckin… talented kid."

You gasp for air, biting down on Elliot's shoulder before you can respond. "Can we not… talk about, oh shit, my son right now?"

"Sorry, I - fuck. Fuck." He stills inside of you, but doesn't come like you originally think. Instead, he flips you over, on all fours, so that he can drive into you from behind, his right hand lacing into your hair and tugging hard.

You listen to the slap of your bodies for a while, the way his skin meets yours with force and fury. You're getting close, as his other hand snakes around and touches your clit, sending tiny electric waves through you. "You like that, dirty girl?" He lets go of your hair and lightly slaps your ass, trying to minimize sound but still make an impact. You love it - the act of being spanked, and he knows that.

"I, shit shit shit. El, fuck." You can feel yourself starting to shake, and he slams a palm over your mouth so that if you moan, Noah won't hear it.

"Yeah, baby, just like that." He's coming not long after, biting down on your shoulder now, then soothing it with his tongue once his release is over.

You roll over on the bed, lying flat for a moment before you get up and pull on jeans that you had put in the laundry basket the day before.

"You don't think he heard anything, did he?"

"Nah, I doubt it. He didn't knock, and you're usually pretty quiet." It's true. Other than an occasional moan or growl, you're virtually silent in bed. You like how Elliot's usually the one in charge. There's a sense of security that comes with it for you, probably to do with how much you trusted him as your partner, how much you trust him now. Even when he's pulling your hair, slapping you, pinning you down… There's nowhere that you can imagine feeling safer.

"Can I ask you something?" You curl up next to him on the bed once you're done getting dressed, tucking your feet underneath you. "Would you ever, uh, tie me up? Or at least my arms to the…" You feel a wave of shyness hitting you, so you just place a hand on your headboard.

"You'd want me to do that, right? Like, you want this?'

"Yeah."

"Okay, yeah. I mean, I don't really know how to do that, but… I'm sure I can look it up."

You kiss his lips gently, hovering over him. "You're amazing."

"You're not so bad yourself."

You smirk, getting up to check on Noah. You glance over at the clock and… holy shit, there's no way that you and him were at it for only fifteen minutes.

"You weren't joking about a quickie." He says, noticing where your eyes are.

"Fuck off." You chuckle, before opening the door.


End file.
